Once in a Blue Moon
by CrimsonHawkStar
Summary: A green eyed boy locked away in a cupboard dreams of a life that could have been his. He dreams of a red headed woman and a man who looks just like him. And suddenly he's transported to a strange and unfamiliar forest, but his adventure of a lifetime is cast to the side when the wolves begin to howl...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and probably never will…**

 _Once in a Blue Moon_

"Vernon!" Petunia's high pitched screech reverberated around Number 4 Privet Drive. Her dull brown hair was tightly curled in rollers and she was wearing a light pink, silky bathrobe. Her face was devoid of any of the makeup that usually suffocated it, leaving her pale, pimply skin for all to see. She was staring at the telephone in her hand as though it was a rat in her kitchen.

"What is it?" Came the slurred reply from upstairs.

"It's Mrs Figg. She can't look after _it_ today. One of her cats had to be taken to the vets and she claims to be unable to leave it on its own."

"Stupid woman and her stupid obsession with stupid animals," Vernon grumbled as he waddled down the stairs, "Why is she ringing at this ungodly hour anyway? No respect for normal people."

"It's ten to ten in the morning, darling. We probably ought to wake ickle Dudders up now."

"Petunia, it's the day before his birthday, give the young man a break!"

"Oh, alright then. Anyway, she can't look after _it_ , so he'll have to come with us."

"Nonsense, woman," Vernon admonished, "he can stay here and learn to do as he's told after that stunt he pulled this week. Blue hair? Honestly, he's out of his goddamn mind. And we wouldn't want him to ruin Dudders' special day, would we? Six is his favourite number after all."

Petunia sighed resignedly, thinking of her beloved son upstairs. "As long as he is not allowed in my lounge."

"Of course not! He'll be in his cupboard, where freaks like him belong!" With that, Vernon wobbled over to the hallway, earning a wince from his wife as he nudged the brand new coffee table out of place. She scuttled after him to set it right.

Vernon raised a pudgy fist and hammered on the little wooden door to the cupboard under the stairs. A muffled shuffling came from within.

"Oh, freaky!" He cried in an out of tune sing-song voice, "Where's my breakfast? And extra rashers of bacon as well. It's Duddikins' birthday party today. I want it to be extra special." He roughly slid the latch across and yanked the door open. A pair of startling green eyes stared back, blinking owlishly in the blinding light. "Now get up, you lazy brat, and get to work!" Reaching a purple hand into the cupboard, he dragged a dishevelled boy out.

"And comb your hair while you're at it!" Petunia shrieked from the other room. The young boy stumbled down the hallway and into the unusually clean kitchen.

He was small: appearing to be around four years old, despite the fact that he was almost six. Taking his comb from the table – he had one of his own so his relatives didn't get infected by his freakishness- he tried to tame the mop of unruly black hair on his head. It did nothing to help the uncontrollable mess. Instead, he ran a thin, pale hand through it, revealing a red, lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. His clothes hung off his body like a potato sack, and he had to constantly pull his trousers up. They were hand-me-downs, just like the rest of his things, but he didn't mind – not at home, anyway. It was only at school that it mattered.

School confused him. There were so many people. They had been nice at first, but then Dudley bullied anyone who tried to be his friend. The teachers knew, of course, but they stopped helping ever since that fateful call one of the teachers made to Uncle Vernon about his oversized school uniform. He had spent five days in his cupboard for that. It didn't happen again.

The teachers confused him too. For some reason, they insisted on calling him Harry, but he didn't complain: he liked it better than 'freak'. They were wary of him, too. He had overheard Aunt Petunia talking to Miss Boaler (His Year One teacher) and she used words he had never heard before, like 'drunks', 'criminals' and 'scoundrels', but he was pretty sure he knew what they meant.

Harry wasn't stupid. In reality, he was quite clever. When he started school, he always tried his hardest in an attempt to please his teachers. But as soon as word got back to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia that he was outperforming Dudley in school work, he knew he had to stop. After being threatened with his cupboard for the umpteenth time, he decided to lower his marks. In spelling tests, he would no longer get full marks. He would no longer finish his work ahead of time and ask for more. He would no longer be the best behaved student in the class.

Mind focused on the task ahead of him, Harry dragged a white painted stool over to the pristine work surface and set about preparing breakfast. Before long, thick slices of bacon were sizzling away in a pan and white bread roll were warming through in the oven. It made Harry's mouth water. Keeping a careful eye on the bacon, he climbed up to fetch some sauces for the table.

He was still a rookie at the culinary game (he'd only been able to see over the sideboard for a few months) but he liked to think he was quite good at it. Aunt Petunia had spared a few hours to teach him the basics, and he could just about decipher the various recipe books hurled his way. Cooking was by far his favourite chore. He didn't get too dirty, and he could occasionally pinch some of the goods before he served them up. But he probably shouldn't do that today.

You see, it was Dudley's sixth birthday party. They were going to the new theme park that had just opened down the road. _Nothing less for my Dudders!_ Aunt Petunia had crowed. Dudley was taking three friends (read: henchmen) from school and regularly took the time to point out to Harry that he was spending the day with the mad old cat lady across the road. Evidently that wasn't going to happen now.

Harry sighed as he transferred the greasy bacon over to the serving platter. He now had a delightful day to look forward to, locked away in his cupboard. It wasn't his fault that Mrs Figg's cat was at the vet. And it certainly wasn't his fault that the librarian's hair turned blue. She had reprimanded him for having mud on his shoes, so it kind of served her right. Karma, he believed it to be called.

Turning to get a grapefruit out of the fridge for his Aunt, Harry flinched as Dudley's footsteps thundered across the ceiling, announcing his arrival into the land of the living. He waddled down the staircase in much the same way as his father and promptly plonked himself down on the sofa.

"How's my sweet Duddikins doing this wonderful morning?" Aunt Petunia asked in a voice sweeter than candy floss as she smothered him in kisses. Harry snickered at the disgusting display of affection but was quickly silenced by the sharp glare sent his way.

"Where are my presents?" Dudley demanded by way of reply.

"There's my boy, always knows what he wants, no beating around the bush." Vernon praised.

"But Dudley, honey, it's your birthday tomorrow. You can have them then." The high pitched voice cooed.

"Where are they? I want them now!" Dudley persisted, his bottom lip trembling.

"I'm sure we can sort something out, can't we Vernon?"

"Of course, anything for the young man of the house." Vernon agreed. Dudley sent Harry a pointed grin of glee, delighted at yet another display of his supremacy. As if Harry didn't already know.

Announcing that breakfast was served, Harry quickly skittered out of the way.

"Boy!" Vernon shouted, "Where are you going? Drinks, and fast."

Biting his lip in frustration, Harry quickly fulfilled his Uncle's demand, and left the room.

It wasn't long before Pier Polkiss and Dudley's two other henchmen arrived. They were dressed in ridiculous clothes for a six year old to be wearing (namely matching leather jackets and combat boots) but their mothers were all fussing over how handsome they all looked. Before they arrived, Harry was banished into his cupboard and was now watching this scene unfold in front of him through the slats in the door.

The mothers soon left; not before drowning their respective child in kisses, cuddles and reassurances that they would be safe and sound. The boys spent a small amount of time watching cartoons and trading collecting cards before they too left for the car. Dudley aimed a kick at Harry's cupboard as he passed by – obviously.

Petunia lingered behind, letting Harry out to swiftly wolf down a sweaty cheese sandwich and locking him back in his cupboard for a final time. She did not say a word.

And so Harry lay in the dark, listening to the front door slam shut and wishing for a life where his parents hadn't been killed in that car crash. He daydreamed of his parents and their friends, of a woman with dark red hair and a man who looked just like him. In his dream there was a man with a mane of shaggy black hair and one last man with greying hair and a worn, weathered face. They were all laughing.

Then he disappeared with a crack.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, and probably never will…**

 _Once in a Blue Moon_

A sharp crack announced Harry's arrival into a forest. A forest? Harry was speechless. All Uncle Vernon's talk about his freakishness was true! He never should have doubted him. Uncle Vernon was always right, wasn't he? After all, no normal person could grow their hair back overnight. No decent person could appear in a forest after simply thinking about the parents they never had.

Harry took a moment to glance around his surroundings. He was, to say the least, surprised.

He was in a large clearing in the middle of what seemed to be a densely wooded pine forest. It smelt like one of the candles Aunt Petunia would get for Christmas from her friends. Damp moss covered the floor, giving off a deep, earthy smell and pine needles snapped under his feet as he walked. The sky above was a beautiful cornflower blue, streaked with thin, wispy, white clouds. It was hot too, Harry's round, black glasses began slipping down his nose as beads of sweat formed on his brow.

 _When the Dursleys get back,_ Harry idly thought, _I wonder if they'll notice I've gone. Not that it matters anyway. I can't very well go back now, can I! And that's if I wanted to in the first place…_

Harry was pulled out of his thoughts by the most unusual thing about where he was: a little wooden hut. Well, it wasn't that little, but it was nowhere near the size of the Dursleys' house.

It was constructed of dark, vertical panels of wood with one small glass window and an old rickety stable door. Regardless of its rundown appearance, to Harry, it actually looked quite welcoming. Above the door, a small hand carved sign declared it to be the ' _sanctuaire de la lune'_ – whatever that meant. Harry supposed it was French from the little he had learnt at school.

Did that mean he was in France? He certainly hoped not – it would take an awfully long time to get back to Little Whinging if he was. Uncle Vernon would go purple with anger, and that was never good.

Deciding that his best option was to see if anyone was home, Harry skipped over to the hut. He was excited, having never been on an adventure before. Rapping his soft knuckles on the hard wooden door, Harry hissed in pain as several splinters dug into his delicate hands. He'd worry about that later, he decided, there was an adventure to be had first.

After several minutes, lots of knocking and no reply, Harry reached up for the door handle. For all its benefits, there were times when Harry's height, or lack of it, was more of a burden than a gift. He twisted the handle and pushed the door, but to no avail: the door would simply not budge.

A wave of tiredness washed over him, which was strange because it was still morning. Now that Harry thought about it, he'd been tired ever since he got to this… place. It suddenly seemed like a brilliant idea to have a nap. Resolving to begin his adventure when he awoke, he wandered around to the back of the hut and lay down on a particularly soft, but dry patch of moss.

Harry fell into a deep but restful sleep, disturbed only by seemingly random images that his mind conjured up of a greying man. The man wore a smile on his face that reached all the way up to his amber eyes, making them twinkle as though they contained an entire galaxy. His smile was so real and encompassing that it made a dreaming Harry smile too. The man looked carefree, regardless of the tales of hardship and worry that were told by the creases in his face.

Harry instinctively trusted this man. He felt as though he could pour his heart out to him without hesitation, and have no regrets.

But something felt wrong. Like the man was missing something. Like something was holding him back. Like something…

Harry awoke with a gasp as an eerie howl tore through the woods. The darkness in the forest was so thick you could feel it, and Harry could only see his hand in front of his face because of the light of the full moon above. Surrounding the moon were millions of stars.

Harry had always loved the stars. He loved the idea that there was something more than what he could see around him, that there was more than this. The possibility of another Earth with its own people intrigued him. He felt that mankind was destined for the stars. There was so much out there just waiting to be explored. The concept of infinity amazed him to. It was difficult for him to get his head around, that there could never truly be _nothing_. But he took it in his stride. To him, it simply meant that he would never run out of places to explore

The sky above him was the most beautiful he had ever seen. Granted, he rarely ever left Little Whinging, but he often studied the stars whilst Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon sipped tea in the living room in the late evenings.

It reminded him of the man's eyes, the man from his dream.

Another heart-wrenching howl ripped through the trees, dragging Harry back to the present. It was much closer than before, perhaps 50 yards away, maybe less. Harry was frozen to the ground in terror – this adventure wasn't as fun as it first seemed.

Ever since Aunt Marge's dog, Ripper, had chased him up a tree, he had developed an aversion to canines, both great and small. This was obviously a large animal, which just made it worse.

In a panic, Harry stumbled out of the clearing and into the woods, away from the animal. He ran, tripping over tree roots and brambles, but always running. After several long, arduous minutes he stopped and collapsed by the side of an old, knarled tree. Panting, he gradually caught his breath back and slowly stood back up on two trembling legs. He was safe. The _thing_ wouldn't chase him this far. He felt along the trees for guidance as he slowly, quietly continued his walk away from the wolf.

A rustling in the bushes about ten feet away from him caused him to go deathly still.

The branches parted with staccato snapping sounds, like fireworks, as a russet wolf bounded towards him.

The animal stopped, pausing for a moment to smell the surroundings. Its wet, black nose twitched almost unperceptively and its calculating amber eyes darted around. Moonlight glinted off its dark red fur. Its red gums were pulled back, revealing a myriad of needle-like fangs.

It was unlike any wolf Harry had ever seen before. It was red, not the usual grey, and had captivating, mesmerising golden eyes that twinkled with human intelligence.

A growl ripped free from the wolf's throat. It shook Harry to the bone. It was almost as though the air around them was trembling and crackling with sparks.

In the moment that the wolf took to lean back slightly, ready to pounce, Harry took off into the woods.

He sprinted as fast as his adrenalin-fuelled body would allow him. He was shooting through the forest quicker than he ever had before. But the wolf was still gaining.

With every stride he took, his glasses threatened to fall off. He hurriedly pushed them back up his nose with one hand as he continued on his path through the trees. If Harry had been calm enough to notice, he would have seen that every branch, bramble and tree root that had previously obstructed his path was rapidly receding away from him, as if by magic. For all the good it did, it wasn't enough. The wolf was gaining.

He heard the unmistakeable sound of tearing fabric as the wolf's claws tore through the back of his shirt, barely an inch from his skin. Harry kept running. He was determined to escape the inevitable.

Mere seconds later, the claws found their mark and he tumbled to the ground. Flashes of pain seared through his back. His eyes were clenched shut in a futile attempt to alleviate the agony. Blindly trying to stumble to his feet, he heard a skittering behind him and jaws clenched around his shoulder. Warm liquid was flowing freely down his back. He wished for the pain to end, but the blissful release of unconsciousness eluded him.

A deep, angry, yet mournful howl reached Harry's ears. It was different from the one he had heard before: it was filled with betrayal.

The wolf holding him stopped moving. Its ears pricked up before it flung him to the side. Harry flew through the air before his outstretched arm collided with a tree. A pain-filled _crunch_ told him that it was broken. He slid to the floor in a messy, excruciating heap. His glasses smashed beneath him, the glass slicing his face.

He watched with blurry eyesight as another bigger, brown wolf with grey streaked fur entered his vision. It wasn't glaring at Harry's unmoving form, but the wolf to the side of him. Howling once more, framed by the pine trees, it charged at the first wolf, which fled in terror. The two wolves bounded off into the trees, snarling and growling aggressively at each other.

Harry tried to roll over, but the pain in his shoulder sent his vision swarming with black spots.

He let the darkness carry him away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, and probably never will…**

 _Once in a Blue Moon_

A red headed woman was perched on a simple metal chair, appearing to be engrossed in a bizarre newspaper. Punchy black letters proudly displayed the name of the newspaper ( _The Daily Prophet_ ), and images of people waving covered the front page. Unlike the ordinary newspapers found in ordinary newsagents on ordinary streets, the people on the paper were _actually_ waving. Bright white flashes temporarily filled the page as the pictures were taken, and the pictures were animated for a few seconds. The people repeated their actions over and over again, in an endless loop, doomed to spend all of eternity staring out of a newspaper.

But that is beside the point.

The point is that the woman was _not_ , in fact, reading the newspaper. Rather, she was watching the inhabitant of the bed next to her.

She was in a hospital. St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, to be precise. The occupant of the bed had not moved, and had certainly not spoken, since he arrived several hours ago. It was a young boy of around five or six years of age. Faint pink lines scarred his face, a distant memory of the trauma of the previous night. The worst injuries, however, were hidden under the sheets. Deep gashes marred his back, wrapped up in layers of gauze and bandage, and his shoulder was cut through – nearly to the bone – by horrific tooth marks.

The medical staff at St Mungo's may have been miracle workers, but no miracle could heal those wounds.

The woman had never seen the boy before. Actually, that may not have been strictly true, depending on whether or not he was who she thought he might be.

"Remy!" She gasped, as she saw her husband walk through the door, "Are you okay? Was it -?"

"Me? No," He answered grimly, "but that isn't to say it wasn't my fault." Remus looked worn and haggard after his monthly transformation, more so now than usual. His normally shining amber eyes had been replaced by dull yellow ones, saturated with guilt. His face bore new scars, shining silver in the light of the ward, and he walked with a limp. He closed the distance between him and his wife and gently embraced her, his chin resting on the top of her head.

"How's he doing?" He asked: conflicted as to whether or not he wanted to know the answer.

"His back is scratched quite deeply, claw marks by the looks of it. His shoulder is worse though. Bite marks – practically to the bone. It's going to take a good long while for that one to heal up. Oh, and the nurse says he has magical exhaustion, we're not really sure why. It's not going to do wonders to his recovery time, anyhow." She reeled off with a façade of impartiality.

"So is he…"

"Yes, Remy, he is a werewolf." She sighed, the glass walls of detachment collapsing around her.

"Oh, Calla," he whispered quietly, "it's all my fault."

"No, Remus, it's not. There's nothing you could have done." Calla reached up and caressed his soft, greying hair.

"But there was. There was _so_ much I could have done. I was supposed to make sure he didn't hurt anyone, to make sure he didn't go out of sight. One moment was all it took, and now," he gestured towards the bed, "this has happened."

"One moment. You said it yourself: it was only one moment. And just imagine the chaos if you hadn't been supervising him. He was abandoned with no assistance or guidance. Helping him was the right thing, Remy. You did the right thing."

"I had wolfsbane. I had _everything_. But I still let him down. He trusted me, and I threw that trust away." His gaze turned dark, "I let -"

"No, no, no! Don't go there!" Calla pulled away quickly, knowing exactly what her husband was thinking, "It's not him! It can't possibly be!"

"He looks so much like James. He can't possibly _not_ be. And even if it isn't. What then? A child has been turned under _my_ watch. He might even be a muggleborn! How do you explain to someone that their six year old child has been cursed by a creature that they thought was out of a fairy tale? I should have done more to help."

"What, Remus? What could you have done?" Calla's deep brown eyes lit up in anger. "Stop moping around about could-have-beens and should-have-beens and focus on _now!_ Think about what you need to do to help Harry through this."

"So you admit it, then?"

"What?"

"That it is Harry."

Calla sighed in defeat. "I suppose so. I just can't see anyone looking quite this much like James. But I guess we won't know for sure until he wakes up."

"His eyes. They were just like Lily's."

Calla's eyes glazed over with a thin sheen of tears. "I miss her – I miss them both – so, so much. Everyone else celebrated _his_ downfall."

"Voldemort." Remus corrected, "Call him Voldemort. We don't need to be afraid anymore."

" _Voldemort's_ downfall, then." Calla amended, "They never spared a moment to think about the cost."

Remus held her hand and squeezed it lightly. "It's over," he whispered, "There's nothing we can do now. They gave their lives for Harry to live, and I guess I've failed him now, too."

They both jumped and spun around, wands held up defensively as the white doors burst open. An old man hurried through, a desperate, pleading look in his pale blue eyes. His grey hair hung down to his waist and an incredibly long beard was bunched up in front of him with several black hair ties.

"Where is he?" he demanded breathlessly. Remus and Calla slowly moved in front of the bed, blocking Harry from sight.

"Who?" Calla asked calmly, knowing the answer but wanting to hear the response.

"Harry, of course, Harry Potter. The wards in Little Whinging collapsed. Only death or a change in species – a curse – like vampirism or lycanthropy can do that. Monitors on his magical core state that he's still alive, so I came here, but -" He spoke quickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth one after the other. His gaze fixed on Remus, finally acknowledging who the other people in the room were, "You? You did this? Remus, I thought you were -"

"He was!" Calla burst out, "He did nothing wrong! Hasn't anyone ever taught you not to make assumptions?"

"Then who was it?"

"Headmaster Dumbledore, with all due respect, this is a delicate situation. We don't need you charging in here like the Gryffindor you are. Have a little tact, and take a moment to consider the welfare of other people." Remus gently took hold of her shoulder and steered her away from Dumbledore.

"Calla, it's okay," Remus assured her, "He ought to know, and even if we don't tell him, he's going to find out one way or another."

"Remy, are you sure? But what's going to happen to … him?"

"It's alright; we can protect him with the headmaster on our side. Without his support, well, you know what the laws around werewolves are like." The pair of them turned back to the headmaster.

Remus began, "I took a newly turned werewolf under my wing. He was turned by Greyback, and then abandoned, just like me. He was only 18. Just out of Hogwarts. Ryan Zephaniah is his name. Muggleborn, I think. Not that it matters anyway. So I told him that I'd supervise him for his first full moon, because you can't take wolfsbane the first time you change. Well, you can, but you might never change back. I took him to my hut, and we spent the day walking through the woods so his wolf could get its bearings. It's never nice when you don't know where you are. We didn't go far: we couldn't in the state we were in. By lunchtime he'd had enough, so we just spent the afternoon there, dozing. Night fell before long. He was fine to start with – just a nip here and there to keep him in line. But then he bolted. I had no idea why. He just did. By the time I found him, he'd already bitten…" Remus trailed off at the end, unable to truly comprehend the damage it had caused. A young boy – Harry Potter no less – had just had his life turned upside down and shaken around in a matter of seconds. Calla squeezed his hand gently, and he gave her an appreciative smile in return.

"I'm so sorry, my boy. I'm so sorry. I can't begin to imagine what you went through last night." Dumbledore apologized, a pitying look in his eyes.

"Yet two minutes ago, you were perfectly willing to accuse him of attacking a child?" Calla countered. Remus was quite surprised by Calla's willingness to knock down the man who she had held up on a pedestal for so many years. Calla had always respected Dumbledore. She had been loyal to him, and Remus had been the same. The wizened headmaster had accepted him for who he was. He had no qualms about letting a classified dark creature onto school grounds and allowing him to live with ordinary witches and wizards for seven years. That act of kindness alone had made a rejected Remus feel like he belonged somewhere for the first time he could remember. Ever since he was bitten, he had spent his life in transit from one place to another so that nobody would ever discover his affliction. His parents had hardly hidden the fact that they thought he was a burden. But Dumbledore offered a place where he could be himself and not live in fear. For that, Remus had been thankful. Calla had been quite the same. After being sorted into Hufflepuff, she had difficulty socializing with her housemates. The house of loyalty had rejected her. That was enough for anyone to feel disheartened. She had spent much of her Hogwarts life with Lily and the Marauders – a year above her own. She quickly caught on to Remus' ' _furry little problem_ ' and had respected the headmaster for giving him a place to live when others wouldn't.

Post-Hogwarts, Dumbledore had presented them with the opportunity to join the Order of the Phoenix, where they could make a difference in the fight against the megalomaniac that terrorized their world. It gave the purpose to their lives that so many people searched for.

As a Hufflepuff – albeit ostracized, but a Hufflepuff nonetheless – Calla took loyalty seriously, so her sudden and drastic change of heart shocked Remus.

Clearly, seeing Harry in the condition he was in had shaken her. Dumbledore had told them both that the child was safe, that nothing could hurt him behind the blood wards. It all led back to the inevitable question: _what was Harry doing in the forest?_ It was hardly a common destination. If it was, then Remus wouldn't have been there on the full moon anyway. Privet drive was halfway across the other side of the country. _It could have been accidental magic_ , Remus mused. That would explain the magical exhaustion. But why would he have apparated _there_ in particular? You had to picture the place, for starters, and Harry had never been there before. Not even before Lily and James had been killed.

Remus wordlessly cursed his curiosity as he felt the beginnings of a headache forming at his temple. Overthinking wasn't a good idea the day after a transformation.

Drawing himself back to the present, he found Calla viciously interrogating Dumbledore with pointed questions. She was a fair few inches shorter than him, yet the headmaster – defeater of Grindelwald and the only one feared by Lord Voldemort – was visibly shrinking before her.

Damn, she was hot when she did that. Remus' lips twitched upwards.

"…told us he was being looked after! So where were Petunia and that monster of a husband when he was being attacked?"

"My dear, the blood wards –"

"Don't you ' _my dear_ ' me! You have no right to do that anymore! And what good are blood wards when he's hundreds of miles away? Surely you can't expect a young boy – the son of James Potter, for Merlin's sake! – to permanently stay in the same place, can you?"

Remus decided that it was probably a good idea to intervene before Calla got too carried away. He stood next to her and turned his body so that he was partially in between his wife and Dumbledore, taking Calla's attention off the headmaster. He saw that her dark brown eyes flickered with flames, and her fiery hair was slightly ruffled.

"Calla, give the man a break. He clearly didn't mean any harm. Yes, his actions weren't entirely justified, but I'm sure he thought that he was doing the right thing at the time." Calla huffed in frustration, and Remus noted that Dumbledore actually looked older than his years for once. _He deserves it, though_ a vindictive voice rang inside his head, sounding disturbingly like the traitor, Sirius Black. He ignored it.

"But he doesn't give a knut about Harry's welfare. Has he once asked how he is? No! Instead he runs around throwing wild accusations at the first people he sees." Remus could see her point. Very clearly, in fact. However, it was neither the time nor the place for a confrontation. That could wait until later. He told her as much.

"Remus, Calla," Dumbledore addressed them quietly; "I take full responsibility for my actions. I simply want what is best for Harry, and for no harm to befall him."

"Well it's too late for that now." Calla interjected before Remus could stop her.

Dumbledore continues, "It seems that we must now discuss the matter of Harry's living arrangements." Calla sobered up immediately. "Obviously, he cannot return to the Dursleys, so it remains to be seen where he shall stay. There is always the option of Hogwarts, or -"

"We'll take him." Calla said without hesitation. Dumbledore's eyes widened marginally in surprise at the sudden proposition. It was expected, of course, but not quite so soon. "It makes perfect sense." Calla continued, "We've known him since he was born; Remus here can help him through his transformations; we can gradually help get him used to living in a magical world after living with Petunia for so long – she abhors magic, you know. Says it's freaky and unnatural -, and finally, we can provide him with a loving home."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course!" Remus answered assuredly, "We could do nothing less. We've wanted him to live with us since the beginning, but it was too dangerous. Now, I pose no threat to him. Anyway, we've always wanted a child of our own." He smiled gently at Calla, whose eyes were now twinkling with excitement.

"Well," Dumbledore spoke, "I'm sure we can arrange something." There was a hint of reluctance in his voice, but he had no valid arguments remaining. Calla's stare caused him to scuttle out of the room. She watched him leave with a satisfied smirk on her face.

Remus sat himself down on the chair Calla had previously occupied. The woman in question elegantly sat on his knees, ignoring the muffled ' _oomph_ ' that came from beneath her.

"I love you, Calla Evans." Remus murmured.

"Lupin," she corrected with a smile, "Calla Evans-Lupin."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, and probably never will…**

 _Once in a Blue Moon_

It didn't take as long as Calla first thought for the Lupins to gain custody of Harry. Nobody disputed the fact that Harry would be better off with a werewolf guardian to see him through his first years with the curse. That, coupled with the fact that Calla was his aunt and therefore blood relative made it nigh on impossible to find a flaw in their case. Despite some revoltingly discriminatory comments from an equally revolting toad-like woman dressed in a horrifying shade of pink, the majority of the court agreed that Remus and Calla were the most suited for the job.

Some people had been swayed by the toad woman – Umbridge, her name was – but they were only the weak minded members of the Wizengamot who held little power in the first place. The only significant opposition was the coven of pureblood fanatics, like the Malfoys. They seemed to be of the opinion that werewolves should be slaughtered on sight. They pushed for Harry to be 'mercifully euthanised' to put an end to his 'eternal suffering', and for Remus to be executed for allowing Harry to be bitten in the first place. Fortunately, their arguments were immediately shot down by the army of valiant boy-who-lived supporters. Some good did come of fame, after all.

The only delay in the proceedings was the oath of secrecy that all Wizengamot members had to swear before even being told the subject of the court case. It wasn't compulsory for adoption cases, of course, but Dumbledore and the Lupins decided that with Harry's unique circumstances, it would be better to stay on the safe side. Some people had protested, but the other option was to sit out of the meeting altogether. Their curiosity got the better of them and they submitted.

Harry had been all too eager to live with the Lupins. Disturbingly so.

Calla had paid a compulsory visit to the Dursley household. Throughout the trip, she was careful to maintain a strictly professional attitude towards her sister, whom she had not spoken to in years. She even took the trouble to wear coloured contact lenses and dye her hair (the muggle way: transfiguration and charms had never been her best subjects) to make sure Petunia remained ignorant of her true identity.

But all she had found was the most normal, ordinary, mundane family she had ever met, with the exception of the morbidly obese father and son.

Calla didn't like it. She had a gut instinct that something wasn't quite right. Their family situation seemed a bit… off.

To begin with, she couldn't find where Harry had slept. The master bedroom was obviously Vernon and Petunia's. Calla was all too familiar with the overly feminine flower patterned curtains and bed sheets. Vernon had clearly not had any input whatsoever in the interior decoration. And it didn't take a genius to figure out that the second bedroom was Dudley's, from the sign on the door.

So that must mean that the third and final bedroom would be Harry's… right? But when Calla opened the door, it was filled to the brim with outdated and broken toys and technology. There was no sign of anyone sleeping there, at all. That left three options. The preferable option was that Dudley had just moved his toys in _extremely_ quickly. However, the thick layers of dust on some of the clutter suggested otherwise. So the first option was regretfully cast away. This left the possibility that Harry had never lived there in the first place, or that he hadn't slept in a bedroom. Calla didn't know which one was worse.

She wouldn't know for sure until she asked Harry some questions, but there was only so much interrogation a six year old could take, however gentle. So for the time being, she kept her worrying observations to herself: Remus would drive himself spare trying to find the answers.

Harry was settling in amazingly quickly. He had moved to the Lupins' as soon as he was discharged from St Mungo's. The nurse had said that although his shoulder hadn't yet healed fully, it was no longer at risk of infection. On the condition that he had to drink some healing potions and a mild pain relief solution once a day, he was allowed to leave the hospital. It was possible to tell that his injuries still pained him every now and again, but he didn't complain and drank the required potions without a fuss.

He seemed to remember Remus on some level, and they both doted on each other. Calla loved the little boy to pieces, too. Once, she had thought that she would never see eyes that green again, but now they lovingly gazed at her on a regular basis. He was such a sweet child, with impeccable manners. Not to mention the fact that he was remarkably adept at household chores for a nearly-six-year-old, but on more than one occasion, that had been quite unsettling…

 _Calla slowly awoke and opened her bleary eyes. The muted blue and white colours of her and Remus' bedroom swam into focus. She turned on her side to see her husband's face peaceful in sleep. It would do him good to have a little rest – he hardly ever relaxed any more. With her index finger, she traced his jawline and the sloping curve of his nose. She traced the worry lines in his brow, and the laughter creases by his eyes. In his sleep, he murmured contentedly and shifted closer to her. Calla smiled._

 _Carefully extracting herself from underneath the sheets, she slipped out of the bed and put on a silky, ocean blue nightgown over her crumpled sleepwear. As she crept out of the door, she looked over her shoulder to see Remus sprawled across the bed, wrapped in the sheets._

 _Her bare feet were warm against the cold wooden floor._

 _It had taken her a long time to convince Remus to let her put more of her money towards the house. He felt guilty that he couldn't contribute much to the cost, but she insisted that it wasn't his fault, just that of the backwards laws of their country. Werewolves struggled for employment and he rarely held a job for more than a few months, often spending weeks searching for another. Eventually, she wore him down, insisting that they would be much more comfortable in a bigger house._

 _Calla wasn't rich. Not by a long way. But she had enough to live comfortably. The cost of the house had taken a large chunk out of her savings, but not so much that they had to watch the knuts._

 _Since Calla had paid the larger portion of the funds for the house, Remus had taken it upon himself to redesign it to make it their home. It showed in the Gryffindor red and gold accents in the upholstery. Even with the painful memories that his school days held, what with him being the last Marauder, he still retained his house pride. He believed in what his house represented, and always would. The occasional splash of sunshine yellow always brought a smile to Calla's lips. Like Remus, she held her house values and morals dear._

 _She hopped down the stairs and spun around the newel post. Sliding down the worn, smooth hallway floor – childish, but forever fun – she waltzed into the kitchen._

 _The cabinets were hand painted Hufflepuff yellow. Remus had agreed with her that sometimes the muggle way was best. Painting with magic just didn't give quite the same effect. A paintbrush painted with love._

 _Bifold doors opened onto a geometrically paved patio, which led to a meticulously kept garden lawn with a backdrop of an evergreen forest._

 _She made to go and seat herself at the table to enjoy the view, but was disturbed by the quiet clattering of metal. Looking up in surprise, she met the green gaze of a sheepish black haired boy. He held a frying pan tightly in one hand and there seemed to be some sort of yellow batter in a bowl on the side._

" _Harry?"_

" _I'm sorry, miss! I didn't mean to make a noise! Promise!" Harry started backing away into the corner, frying pan abandoned on the side. It was Harry's first morning at the Lupins', so he would naturally be nervous. But this?_

 _Calla's eyes widened when she realised what he was doing. Someone had undoubtedly mistreated this child for him to be so frightened of her for the smallest of things. His eyes were darting around like a trapped animal, and his tiny hands were trembling._

" _Harry?" She repeated quietly, "What are you doing?"_

" _I was making breakfast, miss, for when you woke up." His voice trembled._

" _First of all, Harry, I'm your Aunt Calla, you don't have to call me 'miss'. And why are you making pancakes? You're six years old, not a house elf."_

" _But mis – Aunt Calla, I always make breakfast. Every day. Ever since I could reach."_

" _Oh, Harry! You don't need to do that! Remy and I do all the cooking here. In fact, we quite enjoy it."_

" _But that's a freak job, only freaks are supposed to cook." Calla had to stifle a gasp. What kind of monster would call a child a freak? Much less enough that he was convinced it was true._

 _Calla's voice was serious when she spoke. "Harry, let's get one thing straight. You. Are. Not. A. Freak. Okay? You never have been, and you never will be."_

" _But I can make freaky things happen. Nobody else can."_

" _Look. They're not freaky things, that's magic! Remy and I can do it too." To demonstrate, Calla slowly pulled out her wand (pine wood, unicorn tail hair, 12_ _¾_ _inches, slightly swishy) and levitated the bowl of pancake mix over to her, along with a spoon, and began to stir the batter. She heard a sharp intake of breath, and gave a small smile. "Come on, then. We can bake together." She turned to the stove and gestured for Harry to pass her the frying pan. He did._

" _Aunt Calla," He asked slowly, "what's a house elf?"_

Remus had been pleasantly surprised when he came downstairs that morning to find his wife and nephew happily (and messily) baking pancakes in the kitchen. Harry had been quiet and withdrawn the previous evening, despite being obviously pleased with his new living arrangements. With Calla, in the kitchen, he was no longer as held back. Constantly asking questions and inspecting Calla's wand, it seemed as though an invisible glass wall between them all had broken. He was still as perfectly polite as he had been, but Remus could see a new inquisitive side to Harry. He noted the boy's witty sense of humour – advanced for his years – with a smile. He could make a marauder out of him yet.

What Remus loved most about Harry was that nothing ever fazed him.

Nothing.

Harry had barely recovered from his ordeal and the shoulder wound had yet to heal fully, but he acted as though nothing had happened. He didn't ask for pity. He didn't seek attention. He just carried on.

For someone who had never heard of the magical world, he took to the concept like a duck to water. A single display of magic – a mere levitation charm – and he didn't doubt it for a second. That wasn't to say he was gullible, not by a long stretch. It was quite apparent that Harry had more than enough brain capacity to think for himself. Remus supposed that young minds adapt more quickly than older ones that are set in their ways. Even Calla had been surprised. As a muggleborn, she too had been forced to quickly adjust to the new world, but the rate at which Harry did so astounded her.

Finally, Harry's lycanthropy did not bother him. At all. This shocked Remus more than any other thing. Remus himself still often struggled to come to terms with it, and he had had it for more years than he cared to remember. He had sat down and explained to the young boy what it meant, but Harry had just accepted it with a smile. When a confused Remus asked 'Doesn't it bother you?' Harry had replied, 'Well, you're a werewolf too, and you're the nicest person I know.' As if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Currently, the boy in question was attempting to converse with the gnomes in the garden. He had discovered them the first time he ventured out into the garden. Remus had a fascination with magical creatures of all kinds, so had allowed a small number of gnomes to continue living there. The population still grew, but he only had to degnome once every three or four months.

The gnomes seemed to be content around Harry, if a little confused. Harry was curious to find out more about them, and they were curious as to why small humans roamed the earth.

Since the gnomes did not speak English, save for a few words, they were conversing in a weird concoction of gestures and noises. Harry had picked up a few of their names and Remus could hear some entertaining, gnomish attempts at saying 'Harry'.

It amused Remus. He'd always considered himself to be respectful of other creatures, but he'd never considered _talking_ to them. And here he was, being shown up by a six year old who had only known magic existed for less than a week.

"Uncle Remy?" A small voice called from a few yards away. Evidently the gnomes had scampered off to their homes and left Harry to his own devices.

"Yes, Harry."

"Could you play tag with me?" Remus inwardly sighed. He had once thought that he was quite energetic, but one game of tag with Harry had caused him to reevaluate his status in the hierarchy of fitness: Harry left him in the dirt. But he couldn't refuse. Not in the boy's first week.

"Of course!" He leapt forward and tapped Harry on the shoulder, "You're it!"

And so began a kerfuffle of chasing, ducking and dodging as they raced around the garden. It would be long past sunset when they finished.

 **A/N: I just want to say a huge thank you to those of you who have followed, favourited and reviewed this story. It means** _ **so**_ **much to me. Thank you again**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, and probably never will…**

 _Once in a Blue Moon_

 _21_ _st_ _July._

The days ticked down.

 _21_ _st_ _July._

Harry's first full moon.

 _21_ _st_ _July._

The day that could change everything.

Two days to go. Today and tomorrow. That was all that stood between Remus and the night he dreaded the most.

Harry had begun to show signs of the upcoming lunar event. He became tired quickly, and was fast to show a temper. It didn't suit the boy at all. The usual calm, relaxed temperament had vanished, leaving behind a sharp and snappy attitude, but generally only when provoked.

He was powerful, that much was obvious. Remus could feel the magic rolling off Harry in waves. He could feel the young wizard's magic envelop him whenever he came near. Ordinarily, it was a warm, comforting, golden aura that welcomed everyone into its loving embrace. But now, his aura was jagged and pointy, with blackened tendrils of withheld aggression seeping into the darkest corners of the house. In a way, it was a relief. The feelings of antipathy that the boy clearly held for anything that irritated him were locked away inside. It only showed in his magic. Harry had a tight lock on his emotions, and he knew what was right and wrong.

It was Calla who noticed the difference most of all. She had grown accustomed to the presence of the lovable child who roamed her house. She would never take him for granted, though. Often, she entirely forgot about his lycanthropy and instead reveled in the trail of excitement, exploration and discovery that Harry left in his wake.

Instead of in the middle of one of the literally magical adventures that he continually went on, Harry would be found curled up on a chair, sleepily trying to read a book, or blankly staring into the red hot flames of the fire in the grate.

It didn't help that Remus was affected, too. Admittedly, it wasn't so bad, what with it not being his first full moon, but it was enough to make the laid back man irritable.

Calla stepped into the living room. Harry was draped over the burgundy sofa, his hand brushing the floor next to an open edition of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. His eyes were closed in sleep, but Calla could see them twitching underneath his eyelids. Dark bluey-black bags framed his face underneath his glasses.

She gently bent over to pick up the fallen book, and placed it on the wooden coffee table. Removing, Harry's glasses, she put them on the arm of the chair by his head, before carefully lifting his arm up off the floor and folding it over his body. She covered his sleeping form with a thin, brown quilt, and placed a kiss on his forehead.

"How's he doing?" A low voice asked from behind her.

"As best as can be expected, I suppose. Tired, but he hasn't had much sleep the last few nights anyway, has he."

"S'pose not. He'll be better sleeping it off as it is. Makes it a whole lot easier." Remus' eyebrows were starting to furrow with concern, "How long has he been there for?"

"He started reading about an hour ago – I don't know when he fell asleep. It doesn't matter too much though, does it?"

"Cals, are you sure he'll be okay, he -"

"Remus," Calla interrupted as politely as one can, "he's going to be fine. It's Harry. He's strong. And you worry too much – that's my job." She earned a small smile from her husband. "Looking at the state of you, I'd say that you could probably do with turning in as well." Remus rolled his eyes. "I saw that! Now get along with you! Go!"

"But it's only quarter to four!" Remus protested childishly.

"I don't care what time it is! If you need rest, you're going to get rest!"

Herding a disgruntled Remus up the stairs, she soon made sure that both of her boys were fast asleep. Remus was out like a light the moment his head touched the pillow.

Calla sat in the living room with a mug of hot chocolate clasped in her hands. She always found that chocolate (of any kind) relieved stress. As much as she tried to hide it behind a frontier of calm, Calla was worried. She was terrified of the days that lay ahead. Who knew what could happen? She'd lived with a grown werewolf for several years without any significant problems, but never a young one. All sorts of horror stories plagued the wizarding world about newly turned werewolves and the havoc they could wreak. Yes, Harry was with Remus, but did that really make anything better? Calla was well versed in the relationships between werewolves on full moons, and it was common knowledge that things could quickly escalate.

 _No,_ she reassured herself, _everything's going to be fine. Remus will have control, and he knows what he's doing._

 _But does he?_ She tried to push the thoughts down, but they just bubbled back up. _He's failed before, what's to say it won't happen again?_

In frustration, Calla slammed the mug down on the coffee table, wincing at the sound it made. Harry didn't stir. She had always struggled with clearing her mind, but now it was worse than ever. She walked through the kitchen and into the hallway. She took a thin yellow jacket off the hook and stepped out of the house, closing the door behind her and muttering a locking charm under her breath. She needed air – fresh air. And she knew just the place to go.

It wasn't a long journey to the small nearby village – only about a mile of winding country roads. Calla knew them off by heart now, every twist, turn and undulation. She could walk it with her eyes closed. It was refreshing; the unpolluted country air, with the muted sounds of birds in the trees.

Soon enough, the narrow road opened out onto a wider, cobbled street with about five or six picturesque shops on each side. Taking a right, Calla pushed open the door to her favourite café. _The Turquoise Teapot_ was a small shop that served coffee and cakes, as well as selling a collection of vinyl records. For its size, it managed to sell quite an extensive array of records, from Queen to Eric Clapton and just about everything in between.

"Calla!" A warm voice exclaimed from behind the counter.

"Eliza! How're you doing?" Eliza was the proud owner of the establishment and devoted many of her hours to the maintenance and upkeep of it. She was a small, portly woman with reddened cheeks and dark brown hair. What with Calla's regular visits, she and Eliza had quickly become friends. Eliza was a few years older than Calla, but the two had much in common.

"Never better! I don't think you can say the same about yourself, though. Letting off some steam?"

Calla sighed, and sat down at one of the tables by the window. "You could say that."

"Cappuccino, dear?" At Calla's acquiescing nod, she quickly set about making the drink. Before long, it was ready, and Eliza presented Calla with a steaming cup of coffee, and sat down in the chair opposite. "So. What's wrong?"

"Well, nothing's _wrong_ , so to speak." Eliza raised her eyebrows. "No, honestly! It's just that due to some … circumstances, my nephew couldn't stay with Petunia anymore, so he's come to live with Remy and I, and -"

"You don't want him there?"

"No! Nothing of the sort! I love him to pieces! It's just that he has a … a medical condition – the same one as Remus – and it can be difficult sometimes, especially when you don't know what's going to happen."

"This would be a whole lot easier if you just told me what this mystery 'medical condition' was."

"You know I can't do that, as much as I want to, it's -"

"Classified." Eliza finished with a rueful smile: they'd been over this countless times before. "I know."

Calla made a bid to change the subject. "So, how are Jake and his new fiancée doing, what's her name…? Cecilia?"

"Cecily," Eliza corrected, "and they're doing fine, I guess. Stephanie and Mark saw them up by the castle about…" And so they descended into the world of muggle gossip. Calla had never understood the fascination people had with other people's lives, but it served her purpose to get her mind off the full moon. She had a busy mind, constantly worrying about the next thing that needed to be done. Her job didn't help either. She worked in the ministry for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Ever since she'd taken the job, she'd been pushing for the rights of half species, werewolves, and even vampires. She had been forced to stand by the sidelines whilst law after law was passed restricting the lives of so called 'dark creatures'. It seemed that nobody would ever listen to her. But she persevered.

After her marriage to Remus, she had faced increasing discrimination against her, from ignorance to insults. Some had tried to make her redundant, but her boss (one Madame Mina) was sympathetic to her cause and allowed her to maintain her position.

Throughout the ups and downs of her emotional rollercoaster, Eliza had been there to help her unburden herself. The woman always knew exactly what to say to distract Calla from the harsh reality of the world she lived in. When she was shunned, Eliza made her feel as though she was needed – wanted – in the world. She made her remember the reasons why she did what she did. In all honesty, Eliza didn't know the full story (Calla had dressed it up a bit to make it 'muggle worthy') but the basis was still there. Meeting with Eliza always seemed to change her outlook on the world.

But let it not be said that Remus didn't help her through her difficulties. He did. Most assuredly. It was just that every now and again, Calla needed a _complete_ break from the magical world – a moment or two immersed in the muggle world she had grown up in and loved. It was the little things: the cups of coffee; the electronic appliances; the simplicity of the clothing, and even the music. They made her feel more at home than she ever had been in the wizarding world. She loved magic, but with it came a Pandora's Box of nightmares and bad memories that she wished she didn't have.

Pushing open the door to her living room, Calla smiled as she saw Harry snuggled up to Remus on the sofa. Both of them were fast asleep. There was a half-eaten bar of slightly melted muggle chocolate on table, and Calla started to nibble at it as she sat down in the armchair.

It was peaceful. There wasn't a sound save for the rhythmic breathing of the two lycanthropes. All of the windows were thrown wide, in an attempt to alleviate the stuffiness of the living room (it tended to heat up unpleasantly in the summer) but there wasn't a songbird, or even a gnome to disturb the serenity.

The horrors to come could lay dormant in her mind, Calla decided. For now, let there be peace.


End file.
